Author S. K. Nicholas

Dead wombs and anti-matter. Brushing teeth to remove nicotine stains as my fingernails itch through nervous exhaustion- the pain in my gut is there for all to see. Exorcyst girl with bloodied hands gripping the steering wheel. Crashing cars and prophecies of the Bible, they burn in my loins with an equal measure of delusion and guilt. Birds peck out her lying eyes, but these days of rain and English desperation can’t mask the horrors of what lies beneath. Self-loathing and suspicions of destiny. Wordless knowledge and smeared lipstick as you skate on thin ice. Snowflakes and eyelashes so pretty as you dance in darkened fields of ghosts. Stick your fingers in, and show me how it feels like. Bodies so exuberant, it makes me bite my lip as you slide down those tights. Revelations in black, and wavelengths that emit from your belly button. White wine somewhere between London and Chicago. Maybe Paris, but never Illinois. Eat me, and sketch different portions of my face. Keep them close, and remember what it felt like as my hands took what they wanted without reply. No use in asking for compassion. It’s only ever about me; anything else is just an afterthought. Keep on believing, and keep on cheating adulthood out of the kid it desires most to destroy. Handwritten letters sunken like your cheeks. Cancer-killing thoughts as she turns on her side despite my best efforts to keep her close. She says it’s nonsense, but these visions just won’t stop. Take off that top, and let me see what I want to see. Snapping twigs and blurred effigies. Feed me something I crave, and know that I’ll never, ever leave.